The Rat King’s Fury

The scratching came first. Tiny nails on wood, whispering in the dark. A sound you tell yourself is the house settling, the wind, anything but what it really is.

Then the smell – musk and filth, something ancient and bitter lurking in the air.

By the time you see it, it’s too late.

The rat is huge, bigger than a dog, its fur thick and coarse like wire. It moves with a slinking, fluid rage, a thing of pure instinct and hunger. Its eyes glow red, not with reflection, but from something inside. Something old. Something hateful.

It screams. A shrill, ear-splitting sound that freezes your bones and sets your teeth on edge. It doesn’t run. It doesn’t scurry. It stands its ground, watching. Waiting.

And suddenly, you understand.

You are not the hunter. You never were.

The scratching starts again – only this time, it’s not just one.